


a kind of birthright

by eightbots



Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Clariel spoilers, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3920902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eightbots/pseuds/eightbots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Not yet," whispered Mogget, so soft that it was barely more than a thought. "But I know a necromancer when I see one."</p>
            </blockquote>





	a kind of birthright

Mount Aunden was a barely perceptible shadow against the night sky, storm clouds already blotting out the moon and most of the stars. The red star Uallus shone through a gap in the clouds, but soon it too was covered, shrouding the mountain in almost total darkness.

Clariel hadn't counted the years since she'd last been here. Hadn’t counted the years since she'd last set foot in the Kingdom at all. Once the last glimpse of Belisaere had disappeared from view after that fateful night, she hadn't turned South again.

It had taken two weeks to reach the Rift, less than she thought it would. She'd stopped in Navis for supplies, arriving after the news of the King's death and Princess Tathiel's return, but luckily before any details emerged about the role a masked sorcerer had played in those events. Still, she hadn't tarried.

The Rift was very similar to the Wall in that the Charter weakened beyond it, but that's where the similarities ended. You couldn't cross it exactly, you had to go around by boat. And just as a silver-tongued cat once said, Free Magic was not similarly hindered on the other side.

Belatiel had also spoken the truth about the forest on the other side. It didn't have a name, as far as Clariel knew. It probably didn't even need one, she'd thought once, a few months into her journey through it. Much to her delight, there seemed to be nothing _but_ the forest beyond the Rift. No oppressive cities, no expansive, open fields. No people, either.

Clariel had spent many years there, with only old Marral for company. But the aged beachcomber had been called that for a reason, and when he died Clariel buried him and kept walking.

She'd considered settling down more than once. Bel had provided her with some necessities, and she'd bought hunting supplies in Navis, but she'd also procured tools. She had  an axe, a saw, everything she'd have needed to shape wood. There were plenty of clearings that would have been ideal for a house or a hunting lodge. She'd even come across one exactly like the glade she'd spent so much of her childhood in, where two streams became one and a pair of great trees arched above them.

But every time she'd tried, doubts gnawed at Clariel. She didn't feel like she truly belonged in the forest any longer. That ever-present yearning was still there, at the back of her mind. Ever since she'd first touched minds with Aziminil in Belisaere, it had never really gone away. The hunger for power, the urge to dominate, to control. 

All her life, people tried to control her, and to take control away from her. First her parents, steering her life because they thought they knew what was best for her. Then everyone in Belisaere, trying to tug her this way or that in their political games. The Abhorsens had been no better, and even the Free Magic creatures she'd believed would give her that control back turned on her in the end.

Even the forest beyond the Rift had been just her newest prison. A vast, unending prison tailored to her tastes, perhaps, but one she wasn't supposed to leave nonetheless.

Sometimes, when it had been at its most silent, Clariel could hear a voice, barely more than an echo of a whisper.

_Take up the sword. Take up the bells._

She was back, now. Estwael was within reach, and the Great Forest, as well as all her previous prisons. Maybe because of that, the voice was much louder. It wasn't Aziminil or Baazalanan's seductive tones she was hearing, or even Mogget's abruptly cut-off taunt. It was her own voice, she knew. It was the voice she'd spoken with in Belisaere, standing over Aronzo's body, ready to kill Kilp.

_Take up the sword. Take up the bells._

She had taken up the sword. She'd used it to slay those who had slain her parents, who wanted to control and use her. She'd cut them down like they were nothing, and others besides.

_Take up the sword. Take up the bells._

She found the cave with the cache easily. The doorway she had created with Aziminil's power was still there, and Clariel's fingers twitched at the memory. Oh, to have such strength at her disposal again. Not that she could, now. The binding that held that part of her at bay had weakened considerably in her journeys beyond the Rift, exposed to the raw, free-flowing magic that seeped out of it and lived in the forest beyond. But it hadn't been enough to free her. Not yet.

She couldn't bend anything to her will, and she was forever cut off from the Charter. Even her rage had been dulled by her binding. But there was a power she could still use. Another way to be in control.

_Take up the bells. Take up the sword._

Clariel stepped through the entrance, and found the cavern inside untouched. Free Magic distortions of Charter marks still moved across the iron sarcophagus. The bandolier of bells was still lying atop it, within arm’s reach. Just as inviting. Just as right.

Her hand reached out as if by itself once more.

_Take up the bells. Take up the bells._

This time, Clariel didn't force it to stop. She didn't scream and run back into the embrace of the forest outside. She gripped the leather, and strapped the bandolier to her chest. A different sword already hung from her belt.

She ran her gloveless fingertips across the ebony handles of the bells, the smallest the size of a pillbox, and the largest the size of her fists clasped together. She could feel the binding in her mind fray further with every touch.

She wasn't strong enough to shackle a creature such as Aziminil or Baazalanan to her will yet. But with the bells she could raise an army of the Dead if she so wished, and she was certain she could find a way to extend her life until she was free of Mistress Ader's binding completely, ready to regain her rightful power. To finally be truly free, for once in her life.

Then Clariel could revenge herself upon the world that had wronged her so, and was wronging her still by banishing her just for doing what she thought was right.

Taking the second largest bell out of its pouch, she thought that perhaps her one time companions had been right.

She exhaled audibly, a puff of white smoke escaping through the mouthflap of the mask that didn't feel like a mask.

Maybe this was her birthright, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I loved Clariel, and I just reread it so I wrote this quick thing for it. I really wanted to see how Clariel ended up carrying the bells, and I think it must have been like so many other things in her life, something she felt she had to do because of factors out of her control.
> 
> I have another Clariel fic unfinished on my old account, but I doubt I'll continue it at this point. This is basically what it was going to build up to.
> 
> Also, today it's been 20 years since Sabriel was released! Happy Sabriel day.


End file.
